I work in a very mundane cube, within a larger mundane box,all sectioned and hemmed by rows and streetsthat follow a tree-denying grid.The concrete of this place does not believe in magic;forgetting that it was ever rock and burnt limebut I have not forgotten.I move through these halls, along the inorganic lines,a witch in sheep’s clothing;my eye ever beyond the glass.

Within this box I’ve found a room;a quiet room on the fourth floorwhose window cheeks face west and press against the river.In morning it is unknown,not yet made corporate by a florescent stare.It is a nook where one can kiss center and listen.There, I wear the rumble of trains rippling across water, across breathas the river slaps against my roots, whispering.

Today two ships cut through my peace,calling out to one another like succinct whales,courting a brusque love.Something moved through meand the wanderer lifted its headto wonder at soaring.